The sign said 'Liege'. <br />A smelly town in proper Belgium. <br />The stop was short, <br />much distance lay ahead. <br />I parked the bike <br />on its pedestal <br />right near the kiosk, <br />and then went inside <br />to help myself <br />to its soft papers <br />that one would use <br />to wipe then flush. <br />That was the plan. <br /> <br />And, if your travels <br />take you to that <br />smelly town, <br />I hereby warn you <br />that their railway stations <br />do not have seats <br />but single holes, <br />two handles, <br />where they do expect <br />you lay your egg <br />of brownish colour. <br />Oh, what a shock! <br /> <br />And when my key <br />fell into that, <br />which was intended <br />to travel further down, <br />through force of gravity, <br />I had to stoop, <br />though turned around, <br />no longer squatting <br />close to peril. <br />And dug with skill, <br />and, let us say, <br />much quiet desperation <br />until I saved it <br />from a certain <br />last farewell.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/close-call-2/
